Placophobia
by Dragons-And-Merlins-Beard
Summary: Ever since John lost his best friend he had been in a terrible phase of silence, grief, and self hatred. He battles to keep himself alive through his loss. When he nearly causes his own death someone is there to break down the door and save him before it's too late. Post-Reichenbach reunion fic. Eventual Johnlock. Rated M for language and self harm.
1. Bloodied Waters

_Placophobia_

**Chapter One: **

**Bloodied Waters**

_'I was so alone, and I owe you so much. But, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this.'_

John sat silently in the chair he had drawn up by the window. He remained in the now quiet and uneventful flat of 221b. The man couldn't recall how long he had been there since his best friend's suicide but he didn't care. He never answered his phone or even the door when people tried to come over and console him.

People still got in however but John would remain quiet and rarely ever looked at whoever decided to visit; whether it Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, or even Mycroft. It had been almost four months since he watched his best friend throw himself off the top of St. Bart's after he had told John he was a fake. A fake. John could never believe such a thing. Sherlock Holmes was such a brilliant man and nothing he could of ever done could have been faked. He couldn't go to the cemetery anymore it caused too much pain. He was too afraid to. He was afraid of that polished black tombstone.

John Watson was never the one to have severe attachments to people, especially not since the war, but since Sherlock's death he'd completely shut down. He spent his time curled up on the couch or sitting by the window as if waiting to see a mop of dark curls making it's way towards the flat.

He barely ate, only enough to keep himself from starvation. He had lost a lot of weight to where his bones poked through his flesh and made him look even more weak and feeble. He couldn't find sleep much, it was nearly as bad as reality was - woken constantly by his own screams. His eyes were always bloodshot and lined with dark circles, sunken into his paled face.

John felt completely numb and couldn't gather himself back up after what had happened. He had lost himself as soon as Sherlock had landed on the cemented sidewalk with his blood splattered about. Numb.

He'd fallen into a nasty habit of delving his army knife into his flesh hoping the pain would pull him out of his numb state, bring him some life. It did only for little time before he lied in the bathtub clutching at his self-inflicted wounds.

His eyes grazed over the bland morning on Baker street. Not many people were out yet and the sky was clouded blocking the sunrise. So dry and meaningless. A small sigh escaped John's lips. His whole body felt weighted down by an unknown force and he found it hard to pull himself up from his chair and lumber out to the littered kitchen.

He hadn't been able to physically or emotionally box up the rest of Sherlock's things that had been left there before he had left the flat the day of his death. Everything else stored in his room Mrs. Hudson had taken and donated without disturbing John. The broken army doctor couldn't go into the kitchen without taking a few moments to gaze at the scientific equipment set up messily on the wooden table.

He imagined Sherlock sitting there hunched over his microscope in concentrated silence. The memory brought a soft smile to John's lips before it was ripped away from the painful reality.

John shuffled across the flooring and mechanically put on the kettle for some refreshing tea hoping it waken him up enough so he didn't have to go to his knife. As his tea boiled he made himself a single slice of toast with a small amount of jam spread across it. He found it a chore to feed himself as it were too much to have to open his mouth and chew at something that was now so tasteless.

He did it anyway, he chewed at it slowly watching the kettle waiting for his tea to be ready. He still found some slight enjoyment in the occasional warm cup of tea or even coffee. It added some warmth to the coldness of his body and soul.

When his tea was ready he carefully poured it into a mug and went back into the living room. Sometimes he'd turn on the telly so he didn't go mad in the absolute silence, but today he just let the flat remain in it's quiet state as he sipped at his tea. All so dull and numb. Everything.

The tea didn't bring enough to him.

John gritted his teeth as he mentally argued with himself as he traipsed to the bathroom where his painful routine awaited him. "You shouldn't do this." He whispered to himself. His voice was thin and hoarse, it always was.

He pushed into the bathroom flicking the light switch. The tub still had some crimson stains from his last go-around. His army knife was folded up on the edge of the tub along with a roll of bandaging in case he went too deep and lost too much blood, which had happened a few times. He'd never admit to any of his visitors what he did, never.

He didn't mind them being there too much just as long as they didn't go into the bathroom. The few times Mrs. Hudson had tried to go in and clean it John had to carefully guide her back out of the flat.

John shut and locked the door behind him and he began to strip off his clothing. He'd stuck with wearing jumpers and jeans but sometimes he'd stay in his pajamas for weeks at a time before he got himself to get dressed and take a brief walk down Baker street. He started up the water making it just below scorching hot. He clutched the edge of the counter, dipping his head down to let out a breath.

After the bathtub had filled up a fair amount he turned the water back off and slowly lowered himself down into the boiling hot water. He winced at the temperature but felt a surge of energy go through him chasing away the numbness that haunted his body. Sometimes he made the water hot enough to bring him out of his living death enough that he didn't have to resort to his knife.

He leaned back against the wall letting out a content hum. His toes peaked out from the water at the other end of the tub as he slid down into the water. John splashed water into his face trying to refresh himself further. There was still that dull ache in his chest. He couldn't ever seem to get rid of that. His hand carefully reach for his knife and his hands shook as he unsheathed it.

He bit his lip trying to find some self-control somewhere but he couldn't. He never could. He stared at the silver blade illuminated in the dim lights of the bathroom. He took a deep breath and lift his arm up out of the water. "One...two...three," He whispered before digging the tip into a spot right about his elbow. He drew the knife across his flesh a few inches before pressing his hands over his mouth to clamp out his hollers of pain.

Shivers ran throughout his body and his mind and body seemed to depart from reality for a few moments and allowed John to clear his mind. He took another breath before summing up enough courage to go again. His eyes met the blood dripping off his arm and coloring his bath water. The crimson drops pressed a painful memory into his mind.

_The dark curls in contrast to his pale face were now clumped up with blood. His face also harbored seeping crimson that was trickling across his gracious features. His eyes were wide open, so brightly blue but so dull. So dead._

John hadn't even realized he'd gone in for another slice, a deep slice. His head started to slowly spin, "No, no." He murmured, dropping the knife into the water and attempting to pull himself up. He tried to breathe but he only became more and more dizzy. His eyes caught the large quantity of blood trickling over his arm and diluting in to the warm water.

He was going to pass out. He knew it. Black spots danced across his vision and everything around him was spinning and shaking. "M-Mrs. Hudson!" He cried, trying to grab his bandages. He tore weakly at them and tried to press them over his arm. Crimson liquid spurt out all over the tub and tiled flooring. He sunk back into the water trying to hold the loose wrapping to his upper arm.

He cried out for help once more, his voice hoarse and unsteady. He was vaguely aware of the door handle shaking vigorously. The door was suddenly kicked down and John's eyes slid over to see a tall thin man standing there in a panic; raven curls outlining a pale and well-structured face. "Sh...Sher..." John tried to say but he couldn't hold onto consciousness much longer.

He remember his name being shouted out before he blacked out.

* * *

**A/N: So sorry if that was gruesome. I really want to get my own reunion story out before the ACTUAL reunion happens on TV. I'd been meaning to write this for ages but I hadn't gotten around to it. So here we go. I'm not sure how long this story will be but I would guess around five chapters? It depends. Anyway I hope you enjoy this!**


	2. Seeing A Ghost

_Placophobia_

**Chapter Two:**

**Seeing A Ghost**

John's eyes opened groggily, his vision blurry and disoriented. Where was he? He tried to lift his arm but it only sent jolts of pain through out the whole left side of his body. He groaned as every limb buzzed with a dull ache. His eyes slowly made out his surroundings; he was in his bedroom. He didn't remember how he'd gotten there, his mind was fuzzy as he tried to think back at what'd happened.

_Blood, a lot of it, everywhere. Pain, vivid pain, coursing through every body part. Noises. Shouting. Desperate pleas for help. Then something. Something else...what was it?_

John couldn't think of what had happened before his consciousness had failed him. It was something important, very incredibly important. He slowly pulled off his covers to reveal his left arm bandaged up thickly. That's where his cut was, he remembered, where he'd gone terribly deep. The bandages though, he never recalled ever getting them wrapped around his arm, he hadn't done that had he?

He had been very out of it, it was nearly impossible for him to have been able to dress his wound in the state he'd been in. He stared at the wrappings in wonder, who had put on the bandages then? Who?

Someone. Someone important.

John took a deep breath before pushing himself up into a slouched sitting position. He blinked the sleep from his eyes taking in the pleasant rays of sun pouring from the window in his room. He'd actually managed a good night's sleep; or rather a whole day of sleep. He wasn't sure how he'd managed to doze throughout such a long period of time since he'd started his little 'hobby' around midday and woke up the next morning.

He yawned and forced himself steadily up on to his feet. He swayed a bit too tired to enable a good balance. He took his time to shuffle out of his room and down the stairs. He gripped to the railing with his good arm as he didn't trust his feet to safely guide him down the staircase. He went straight to the kitchen to put on the kettle and make himself something to eat for breakfast.

He fished out some left out pasta that Mrs. Hudson had brought up a few days ago and set the bowl into the microwave to heat up. He collapsed into a kitchen chair tiredly rubbing his temples as he felt a headache start up. Most every day was like this, just going through the motions. John licked his lips which were dry and chapped due to his lack of self-maintenance.

When his breakfast was ready he pulled it onto the kitchen table where it wasn't infested by the items of his dead best friend. _Sherlock._ John sat straight up. Sherlock. His eyes shot to the equipment. Some of it was missing. John would know since he would look and cry over it near to every day. There was a beaker gone and the sample of a human cheek cell was no longer underneath the microscope.

John's head seared with pain and he forced a shout of pain back down his throat. He stood up from his seat and looked all around the table for the missing things, thinking they might have fallen off or something logical like that. There weren't too many probably possibilities of what could have happened. Had Mrs. Hudson taken them? It was unlikely since she had promised John to leave the table as is, also the question of why would Mrs. Hudson want to move those specific things?

Leaving his breakfast on the table untouched, John started for the door to grab his jacket. He stopped in his tracks. He was dressed. When had he gotten dressed? He never remembered dressing his wound nor himself after what'd he'd done. He had his black and white striped jumper on along with a gray pair of trousers. He hadn't worn either article of clothing in nearly a year. Pushing away the thoughts away for now, he snatched his jacket, which was collecting dust, off the rack and slipped it on over his shoulders.

He stepped out of the flat without shutting the door behind him. He went directly to Mrs. Hudson's flat knocking softly on the door hoping he wasn't waking her. It was a few minutes before she opened the door in her dressing gown. "John!" She shouted in delight. Without warning she pulled him down into a hug. John sighed and sunk into the embrace. "What's you brought you down here?" She asked, letting go of him.

"I was, um, wondering if you'd been up in our-" He caught himself, painfully aware of his habit of calling 221b, 'our flat' when in fact there was only one tenant there now. "_My _flat."

"No, dear. I was out the past couple of days with my sister. She's got a wretched knee problem, oh what a pity with her. She's always going about with chores she shouldn't be doing with her age." She said straying off topic.

"Are you sure you weren't up there? Because there was...stuff missing - or moved." He explained.

"Well what kind of stuff, dear?" Mrs. Hudson questioned.

John cleared his throat and took a pause before answering, "Sherlock's stuff."

Mrs. Hudson stiffened and tried to pick her words carefully, "Oh, I'm sorry. I haven't been up there recently; actually I haven't been up there in a week or so. Last time, I think, was when I brought you some dinner because I was afraid you weren't eating enough. Oh my, John, look at you, so thin."

John shifted uncomfortably on his feet at her last comment, "Well, thanks." He said in a quiet voice and bid her farewell. He turned and decided to go for a short walk before going back to the flat.

x

The fresh air was a nice change from the stuffiness that had grown in his flat. He tried to get himself out every once in a while so he could have some time to think in a different setting. Being some where different sometimes brought John out of his moods and allowed him time to rejuvenate for a few hours. He decided to go down to the bakery on the next street and hope to find some peace there.

Maybe he'd remember yesterday.

It only took a little over ten minutes to arrive at the small family-owned bakery that brought a wonderful scent of freshly baked bread and a sweet smell of pie filling. The atmosphere was warm and welcoming; the last time he'd been here was when he and Sherlock gotten home from their case of '_The Hounds of Baskerville_' and picked up a few croissants and lemon squares.

John only ordered a few appetizing looking chocolate-covered strawberries and sat by himself at one of the tables that were off to the side. Even though the strawberries looked good John had some difficulty eating them, like he did with any type of food. It was as if he'd lost his sense of taste or motivation to keep himself from starving. He stuck one in his mouth and forced himself to chew and swallow.

'_Oh my, John, look at you, so thin._'

John had knew he'd shed off a few pounds but he hadn't really cared enough to notice it was more than just a _few_. He forced another strawberry into his mouth trying to appreciate the satisfying taste.

He managed to down all but one. He dropped his face into his hands feeling his headache take hold again. John massage his head until the pain dulled then went to finish the last strawberry, but it was gone. "What the...," John began to mutter but his whole body went rigid as he saw the thief sitting in front of him licking chocolate off the small fruit.

He felt his heart stop in his chest and his mind went into a chaotic mess causing stabs of pain to seize his head. "This...this isn't possible." His voice was barely a whisper, completely broken and spread thin. Yesterday came back to him as his eyes feasted upon that oh-so familiar face.

"Well you weren't going to finish it. It's quite possible, see?" The man across John said, stuffing the strawberry into his mouth. He then smiled, "You act as though you've seen a ghost."

It had to be a ghost because Sherlock Holmes couldn't be sitting right across from him looking so absolutely alive when he was supposed to be dead.

* * *

**A/N: I do apologize for these chapters being short. Anyway, thank you to those who have reviewed, followed, favorited, and read this story! It is all so very appreciated. I have semester exams this week so the next chapter might not be up until around next weekend. See you then!**


	3. Staring into the Face of an Old Friend

_Placophobia_

**Chapter Three:  
**

**Looking into the Face of an Old Friend**

One moment John was gaping at the familiar figure across the table from him the next he was out cold on the floor of the bakery. When he woke his head was throbbing and he found it hard to open his eyes, they felt heavy and tightly sealed. Once he managed to pry them open his head spun at the light pouring into the living room from the windows. He was on the couch with a thin blanket draped over his body. The soft graceful foot steps leading from the kitchen into the living room made John's breath catch in his throat.

"John." Came the rich velvet voice he'd missed hearing for so long. He couldn't handle this, he couldn't hear what the voice would say nor see who the voice belonged to; it was all too much. He shut his eyes again but the voice continued, "John, I know you're awake."

His eyes opened once more to see that face he'd missed, that he dreamed of coming back so many times, that beautiful well-sculpted face leaning close to his - and he punched it, knocking the body it was attached to over on to the ground. "You _fucking bastard!" _He shouted in outrage, "You don't get to come back and act like it's all fucking dandy! I went through so much shit over you! _So much_! You can't just pop right back into my life like this!" He shouts, feeling his whole body shaking with emotion. He found it difficult to sit and look at his supposed-to-be-dead best friend sitting once again in their flat.

John forced himself to stare at the man as he slowly got back to his feet, bright blue-green eyes rather dull and vacant. He was alive. John couldn't handle this, he brought his hand to his lips, covering his mouth in disbelief. He then collapsed over on the couch, sobs racking his body.

He allowed the long slender arms slip around him and pull him to a soft sturdy chest. He melted into the embrace with his best friend, his own arms wrapping around the detective. They both remained silent as he they held tightly onto each other, John being afraid if he let go he would slip away back into death, "How..." He murmurs unsteadily after several minutes.

Sherlock licks his lips, taking a deep breath. This wasn't going to be easy. He eased his arms off of John but remained in close proximity, "It was a very elaborate plan - it had to be." He began, his voice slightly shaken from seeing his friend again, "I couldn't tell you, you had to believe that I was dead otherwise Moriarty's snipers would have killed you, Mrs. Hudson, and Graham Lestrade."

"Greg." John corrects in a whisper.

"Right." Sherlock murmurs, "I had to spend my time away tearing down Moriarty's web so no more harm would be done to you or I. I have failed that," He gulps, "I am still thought of as dead and must remain that status until Mycroft's men are able to demolish the rest of the Moriarty's people, it is a labyrinth of connections and organizations so not only I could stop it all. I couldn't handle the hardships of being captured and tortured for much longer, it was breaking me down and I wasn't able to do what I had set out to. So I finally left it in the hands of my brother who gladly took over. He gave me strict and precise directions of taking refuge at his manor but I refused, telling him it was much better that I come back here so that I notify you that I was still alive. He's allowed it, but no one else besides you must know."

John remained absolutely silent through the explanation of where the hell his 'dead' best friend had been for the past several months. He suddenly felt terrible for screaming and harming him when he must already be horridly bruised and scarred from interrogations. He bit down on his bottom lip in a distant thought, he wanted to have something to say or do but what could he even start with? The army doctor's fingers twitch at his sides as he stares up at Sherlock, "You...I..." He felt dizzy once more but Sherlock grabbed him by the arms before he could black out again.

"I'm sorry to spring this on you, John, I really am. I wish none of this would have had to happen, but I'm back now." Sherlock said, uneasily looking down at John's sleeved arms, "I will never forgive myself for what I've caused you to do to yourself." He whispers quietly, touching his forearm gently.

John immediately pulled it away, and scooted back on the couch. He shook his head, "It isn't your fault don't...don't blame yourself." He mumbles, feeling his stomach turn as he remembered who had dragged him from the bathtub and wrapped up his slaughtered arms. He didn't want the detective to have to ever see him like that, so vulnerable, emotionally and physical damaged.

"Please, promise me this will stop now." Sherlock said, in a slightly pleading tone.

John nods, "Of course. I promise." He whispers, locking his gaze on Sherlock's. He wiped swiftly at the tears that had remained on his cheeks and waterline, "I didn't want to do this...I-I just didn't know what _to _do."

"It's okay, John. It's all okay, alright?" Sherlock assures him, taking his hand in his and squeezing it gently as a comfort. John nods and pulls his flat mate into another embrace, pressing his face into the crook of his best friend's neck.

"I thought I had lost my...best friend and I just didn't know what to do. There wasn't anything else for me to move on to, you're such a big part of my life it took away the rest of me when you jumped off that bloody building." He whispered dolefully, "God, I love you, you idiot." John murmurs, voice still very thick and shaky.

"I love you too, John." Sherlock whispered, almost shocked John had said that or that he had as well.

They both smiled to themselves, something that had left unsaid for so long had finally been breathed steadily out into the air for the other to hear. The one thing John had thought he would never be able to tell his flat mate; that he cared for him so much and loved him more than he had with anyone other human being. It had never even been a romantic affection of the curly-haired detective, just a strong bond in friendship, but after John had thought he had died he realized it was much more than just that which only made everything worse. The grieving only brought regrets and pain.

"Sherlock." John clears his throat, "I don't just love you_ - _I am _in love_ with you."

There was a silence forced between them by the intense and meaningful declaration, but they remained in their tightly wound embrace - though soon Sherlock's deep voice sliced the quiet air.

"I'm in love with you as well, John. I had just never thought you reciprocated those emotions." He says in a firm yet careful voice.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry it's been forever and a half since I've updated this story I've been super duper busy. Also sorry it's so short! I hope to make the last chapter much longer. I had hoped to get this chapter out before Series Three started, oh well. **

**For those who have watched it, do you guys like it? I really like it so far, I think it's amazing. Though I'm not ready for His Last Vow! So not ready, major character death awaits. Cliffhangers as well. Ugh. **


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